


Past the Last Exit

by Savoytruffle



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Age Difference, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Background Het, F/M, Family Drama, Infidelity, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-08
Updated: 2009-11-19
Packaged: 2017-12-10 21:45:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,647
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/790495
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Savoytruffle/pseuds/Savoytruffle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jim never joined Starfleet, still lives in Iowa. Like an idiot, he lets his not-girlfriend take him home to meet the parents.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is the bastard lovechild of my reading [this fic](http://felonazcorp.livejournal.com/48911.html) about [this song](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wRP6egIEABk) and then encountering [this prompt](http://community.livejournal.com/issenterprise/2144.html?thread=120160#t120160) shortly thereafter. The brain is a strange place. Thanks to [](http://cordelianne.livejournal.com/profile)[**cordelianne**](http://cordelianne.livejournal.com/) and [](http://graceandfire.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://graceandfire.livejournal.com/)**graceandfire** for looking this over, providing encouragement and catching errors. Awesome movie poster courtesy of [](http://katekat1010.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://katekat1010.livejournal.com/)**katekat1010**.

[ ](http://pics.livejournal.com/savoytruffle/pic/0006e6w4/)

**_ Riverside, Iowa, 2255 _ **

Jim stays in the bar until Louie kicks him just before dawn. At least he’s sober enough to get his bike home safely.

On the way, he passes Riverside Shipyard. He stops for a moment to gaze upon a half-completed ship and he can tell she’s going to be beautiful.

For as long as she lasts out there.

_"Your father was captain of a starship for twelve minutes. He saved eight hundred lives, including your mother's and yours. I dare you to do better."_

Jim bites his lower lip, ignoring the pain that bites back, and stares for another long minute before slowly turning away.

What good is saving lives when you never get to be in them?

 

 

**_ Iowa City, Iowa, 2267 _ **

“So, I have to go to Georgia to see my parents next week, and I was thinking, you should come.”

The words are quiet, casual, but they jolt Jim right out of his post-coital haze, causing him to stiffen all over, and not in the good way.

Fuck.

 _This_ , he reminds himself sternly, _is what comes of spending the night with a person after sex._

Repeatedly.

And in his own apartment no less.

Expectations.

Shit.

 

 

He should have seen this coming, really. From the moment she walked into the bar, he should have known this girl was going to be trouble.

The first things he noticed were the swagger and the scowl.

Followed by the long legs, pretty face and perfect skin they rode in on.

By the time she reached the bar, he’d conducted a very thorough appraisal.

None of which had prepared him for the voice.

“Whiskey, please. Two fingers. On the rocks.”

Husky and honeyed and not about to take any shit and Jim knew he needed to hear it moaning his name with those legs slung over his shoulders, heels digging into his back.

He turned to take the whiskey off the shelf behind him, adjusting himself in his pants. He turned back, tossed a few ice cubes into a lowball and poured the amber liquid over them.

This was a bad idea.

Jim was good at…well, at pretty much anything he bothered to do for more than an hour or two, and he’d been working in bars on and off for ten years. He knew how to read age and he’d be lucky if the girl was eighteen.

“You sure you’re old enough to drink, sweetheart?” he asked, even as he slid the drink across the bar.

“I’m sure I’m too old not to,” she drawled back, taking a drink that was anything but a sip and not even wincing as it slid down her throat. “ _Darlin’_ ,” she added, just to be cheeky.

Jim licked his lips and forced himself to turn to the next customer.

 

Three hours later, as the end of Jim’s shift approached, she was still sitting at the bar and on her fourth round and they hadn’t spoken more than was required for her refills, but Jim figured he had her number.

“Don’t you think you’ve had enough?” he asked, even as he added new ice and tilted the bottle. “What would your daddy say?”

She looked him straight in the eye and smirked. “He’d tell me the rocks were a waste of space.”

Jim just stared at her a moment and then laughed. “I’m Jim,” he said.

“Joanna.” She tilted her head and took his measure. “You planning to take me home tonight or what?”

 

 

It was against his policy then and it’s still against his policy now, but she lives in a fucking dorm with a fucking roommate, and he’s been over that scene for at least a decade, and, yeah, he’s pretty sure that means he’s way too old to be sleeping with a college freshman, but he is and he does.

Sleep with her, that is.

Well, she used to leave on her own after they fucked, but now sometimes she doesn’t and he doesn’t kick her out.

Probably because he’s a fucking idiot.

Or, you know, because he likes having her around.

Honestly, he doesn’t really know why. Girls with daddy issues have never been his thing. Jim’s got enough of his own to go around, and it’s not like a girl has to be damaged to let Jim fuck her.

But it’s something about the scowls, the swagger, the cynicism, the sarcasm, the swearing. And the Southern accent.

The accent kills him.

That, and the fact that, even though she knows about his genius-level test scores _and_ his repeat offender status, she’s never actually seemed to expect anything from him – better, worse or otherwise.

Until now, anyway.

Jim keeps his eyes closed and stays perfectly still, tries to hold his breathing slow and steady.

Joanna snorts and elbows him in the kidney.

Motherfucker.

“I know you’re awake, asshole. And gimme a break. You seriously think I’m asking you home to ‘meet the parents’? Get over yourself, Kirk. Besides, you owe me one for bailing you out of jail last week. In fact, you owe me the bail.”

Damn, he was hoping she’d forgotten about that.

Jim cracks one eye and tilts his head in her direction, trying to assess her sincerity. She doesn’t _look_ like a delusional schemer trying to lure him down to Georgia for a shotgun wedding…

But you never can tell.

“Why, then?” he asks, finally.

“Because I really can’t deal with going there alone.” She scowls for a second before a rare smile spreads across her face. “And because they are gonna _hate_ you.”

 

 

By morning – or two p.m., which is what passes for morning when your shift ends at four a.m. – Jim is having second thoughts.

Or fifth thoughts if you count the thoughts he had in the night while mostly asleep.

He rolls out of bed and wanders into the living room scratching at his bare stomach. He wanders over to the kitchenette, looking for something edible. He comes up with a half full carton of orange juice, lifts it to his mouth and tips it back, not bothering with a glass…

And nearly pours the whole thing down his naked chest when he suddenly catches sight of Joanna sitting on his couch.

“Jesus, fuck!” he sputters. “You scared me. Aren’t you supposed to be in class?” He sets down the carton. “Or, you know, in your dorm room? Where you live?”

“I skipped,” Joanna says. “Besides, I figured you’d want me around today so you could try to back out of the Georgia thing.”

 _This,_ Jim reminds himself sternly, _is why you don’t let the people you fuck stick around long enough to get to know you._

“Look, Jo,” he says, running a hand through his bed head and trying to assume a posture of control, “I know you’ve been hanging around a lot lately, and I know I’ve been letting you…”

Joanna rolls her eyes at that.

“And I realize I haven’t been quite as…diligent lately about sleeping with other people, but that doesn’t mean—”

Joanna interrupts him with a huff of breath. “Fucking A, Jim, will you just _relax_. I assure you, you have nothing to worry about.” She shakes her head and runs a hand through her own short hair. “Look, just come to Georgia, witness _The Leonard and Jocelyn Show_ for yourself, and I promise you, you will fully understand why I have every intention of dying alone.”

“So your parents…don’t get along?” Jim tries to sound casual, mostly looking down at the counter instead of her. This is dangerous territory.

They don’t talk about family.

Ever.

And whether she answers or not, Jim has no intention of reciprocating, but Joanna doesn’t hesitate. “They loathe each other,” she says.

Jim nods and waits for a few seconds, but she doesn’t say more.

He breathes a silent sigh of relief and flips on an entertainment feed, settling into the couch.

“Alone, huh?”

“Damn straight.” Joanna kicks her feet up so they’re resting on his thighs, sliding one into his crotch and kneading pleasantly.

“No cats?” Jim asks on a half moan.

Joanna scowls as she yanks off her shirt, her breasts blessedly bare underneath. “I hate cats.”

 

 

Jim doesn’t mention it again until they’re on the mostly empty shuttle to Atlanta.

Joanna’s wound tighter than an antique chronometer and Jim offers to fuck her in the bathroom, but she just glares at him.

He shrugs. “Just trying to help.”

She doesn’t look impressed.

“I don’t get it,” he says after another minute. “I mean, if they hate each other that much, why don’t they just get a divorce?”

Joanna sighs. “Believe me, I’ve asked. Best I can figure it’s like…” She pauses. “Did you ever read about the 20th century Cold War? Each side had stockpiled enough nuclear weapons to start World War III, but it didn’t happen then. You know what they say about why?”

“Mutually assured destruction,” Jim says. “They each knew that if either one pushed the button, they’d both die.”

“Exactly. See, if Mom ever told anyone exactly how much Dad drinks, he’d lose his medical license for sure. And if Dad revealed publicly even half the names of the men he knows Mom has fucked in the last dozen years, she’d be run out of town on a rail. But neither of them trusts the other enough to try to part ways peacefully, and if they ever set foot into a courtroom together, someone would start and then there’s no way it would stop until they’d aired every last gory detail. And god only knows what the judge would decide on their mutual assets, but Dad can’t stand the thought of Mom ending up with the McCoy family home…. Anyway, you get the picture.”

He does.

“They’ve been this way since I was like six. I’ve heard talk around town that they almost did it back then, almost just ended it and moved on, but I guess they couldn’t go through with it.” Joanna shakes her head and Jim watches the tension drain from her body. “I don’t know. I don’t really remember. Anyway, I gave up hoping when I was fifteen. I don’t know if they saw it or not, but I’m pretty sure they passed the last exit a long time ago.”

Jim looks down his body at the black leather jacket he’s had since he turned twenty-one.

He knows the feeling.

 

 

 

Joanna’s mood does a dramatic one-eighty – taking Jim’s outlook on the trip along with it – when they arrive at the shuttle port in Atlanta and she drags him into the family bathroom, hand scrabbling at his fly even before the door slides shut behind them.

It’s not hard to ignore the manic look in her eyes when he’s fucking her face down over the changing table.

 _So her parents make her crazy,_ Jim thinks as he slides a hand around between her legs, drawing a long, deep moan from her throat. _Crazy can be fun._

 

 

She keeps stealing glances at him as they make their way out of the shuttle port and into the taxi, her lips curled into a smirk of anticipation.

“They might end up liking me, you know,” Jim can’t resist teasing. “I’m a very likeable guy. The words ‘helplessly charming’ have been used on occasion.”

Joanna just laughs at him, shaking her head. “I’m the eighteen-year-old daughter they’re planning to send to med school, Jim. _You_ are a thirty-four-year-old bartender. The dead-end job that you’ve held for just over eight months in an establishment that _doesn’t_ currently have gambling in its basement actually constitutes the steadiest and most respectable employment you’ve ever had. You’ve spent _at least_ one night in jail for disorderly conduct every month in the three months I’ve known you, _and_ , despite your genius-level test scores, you don’t have enough credits in your bank account most of the time to even make bail. Plus, you’re fucking me, a college freshman…who also happens to be _their daughter_. Trust me, they’re _not_ going to like you.”

“Gee, baby,” Jim says, trying to shrug off her words, “you’re making me blush.”

It’s not like it isn’t all true.

“The only thing my mother respects is ambition,” Joanna continues, “and my dad doesn’t really respect anybody. Sorry, but you don’t stand a chance.”

Jim doesn’t bother to respond to that.

He’s not exactly having fun anymore.

“Oh, and you’re a pretty boy,” she adds for good measure. “My dad _hates_ pretty boys.”

 

 

The house is big and old-fashioned, surrounded by stately magnolias and wrapped in a wide wooden veranda, a cliché of genteel Southern charm. When they step through the front door, the fight is already in progress. Several rooms away, by the sound of it, but the voices carry.

“…fuck is your problem?” a woman’s voice is asking. “We’ll pull something from the replicator when she gets here.”

“Damn it,” a man answers. Jim can hear the familiar clinking of bottle against glass. “It’s the first time she’s bothered to come home in over three months. The least we can do is to serve her a home-cooked meal.”

The woman laughs bitterly. “Right, because _that’s_ why she doesn’t come home more.”

“What? You think it’s _me_ she’s trying to avoid? Maybe if _you_ ever—”

“Don’t you start with me, Len…”

“I thought we should do something special for our goddamn daughter. Is that too fucking much to ask?”

“We?” Jim can’t hear the woman’s familiar snort, but he knows it’s there. “Don’t you mean _me_? God forbid you lift a finger around here.”

“What the fuck do you expect me to do?” Jim hears the sound of a glass slamming against a counter and then the clinking again. “Just pop out of surgery for an hour or so so I can stick a roast in the oven?”

“Why the hell not? Honestly, you’d probably be doing the patient a favor. I hear some people actually _prefer_ sober physicians.”

“I am a damn fine doctor,” the man growls, “and you know it.”

“And I’m not your goddamned housewife, Len. I have a job of my own, you know.”

“What?” the man sneers. “You and Councilman Jameson couldn’t reschedule your nooner?”

“Go to hell.”

“Pretty sure I’m already there…darlin’.”

A brief pause follows, and Jim has to strain to hear the next exchange, which is eerily calm.

“I hope you die.”

“I hope we _both_ die.”

And then the silence.

“Mom, Dad,” Joanna calls, dropping her suitcase loudly on the hardwood floor, “I’m home!”

Jim hears the sound of footsteps headed their way – heavier followed by lighter – and he’s still trying to process when Joanna wraps her arms around his neck and plants her lips over his in a sloppy, showy kiss.

He shoves her away reflexively. “Jo! Jesus.”

“What?” she says, but she steps back, crossing her arms over her chest.

Jim takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. He’s not sure what he expects from the arrival of the heavier footsteps, of this man Joanna obviously hoped would discover them _in flagrante_ , but whatever it is, it’s not the sudden flash of recognition.

He _knows_ that face.

 

Jim’s pretty sure there are people he’s fucked that he could meet again without recognizing.

Hell, he’s pretty sure there are people he’s fucked that he could _fuck_ again without remembering.

Unfortunately, this man is not one of those people.

Jim remembers every minute.

 

Jim remembers the part for his bike that he needed but couldn’t afford.

He remembers Liz, the waitress at the bar who bragged about how she’d be getting three times her regular night’s pay just for walking some hors-d’oeuvres around a reception at a medical conference.

He remembers the event planner, whose lap he’d practically crawled into while charming his way into the bartending job, since he sure as hell wasn’t getting it on the basis of his references.

But most of all, Jim remembers those eyes. The way they surveyed the room with contempt but settled on Jim with frank and focused interest.

He remembers that first whiskey, ordered straight up with a husky half-growl wrapped in a slow drawl, served with a slight but electric brush of fingertips.

He remembers hi s supervisor, four whiskies later, speaking low and close to his ear, telling him to cut the man off.

He remembers ignoring her.

He remembers the sixth whiskey, that same voice, the sixth brush of fingertips, holding those eyes as he placed a small sign on the bar announcing that the bartender would be back in fifteen minutes.

Jim remembers that voice. A full growl this time, hot and wet against his neck, that drawl wrapping wickedly around dark and dirty words.

Jim remembers those hands. _Jesus fucking Christ_ , those hands. Wrapped around his wrists, threaded through his hair, curled around his cock.

He fucked a dozen doctors the following year looking for hands like those.

He never found them.

 

 

Hands that are clenched into fists right now, and Jim realizes he may be staring at them when Joanna’s voice breaks through his reverie.

“Daddy, this is Jim Kirk. Jim, this is my dad, Doctor Leonard McCoy.”

He quickly lifts his eyes from those hands to Doctor Leonard McCoy’s face, but it doesn’t really help.

He offers his own hand automatically to shake, but Doctor Leonard McCoy ignores it.

That’s probably for the best.

Jim’s first coherent thought is that Joanna’s father really _doesn’t_ hate pretty boys.

Jim’s second coherent thought involves some sudden and startling clarity as to why exactly he’s always found Joanna so damn appealing.

Jim’s third, and most lingering, thought is, _Oh, **shit**._


	2. Chapter 2

[ ](http://pics.livejournal.com/savoytruffle/pic/0006e6w4/)

All things considered, Doctor Leonard McCoy makes a remarkably smooth recovery.

Jim’s bracing himself for a fist to the face, but McCoy just continues to ignore him entirely, turning to smile at his daughter instead.

“You should have told us you were bringing a friend, honey,” he suggests in a voice of velvet-wrapped steel. “We would have made up the guest room.”

“ _Dad_.”

Not that anyone cares what he thinks, but Jim is wholly in favor of this suggestion. “You know,” he starts, “I really don’t—”

“Leonard, don’t be such a prude,” says Jocelyn McCoy, finally making her appearance. “He can sleep with Jo in her room.”

McCoy crosses his arms over his chest. “Over my dead body.” 

Jim thinks he means it.

Jocelyn rolls her eyes. “She’s eighteen, Leonard.”

“I know how old she is, _Jocelyn_. I was there.” McCoy pins Jim with a probing glare. “At the moment, I’m a hell of a lot more interested in how old _he_ is.”

Jim opens his mouth, but nothing comes out.

“He’s thirty-four,” Joanna supplies helpfully and Jim’s starting to think he might get that fist after all, but McCoy’s hands remain firmly tucked away beneath his arms.

“I’m making up the guest room now,” he announces in a tone that brooks no argument. “Y’all have a seat in the dining room. My _darling_ wife was just about to replicate us some dinner.” 

Jocelyn turns to Jim, offering her hand to shake. “Don’t mind my _dear_ husband,” she says, loudly enough for said husband to hear as he all but stomps up the stairs. “Welcome to our home. I’m Jocelyn.”

“Jim,” Jim says, taking her hand and pumping it once, lightly. 

Somehow, in spite of her words, the smile plastered on her face is no less frightening than the one plastered on her husband’s a moment ago and Jim’s never regretted anything more than he does ever setting foot in this house.

“Go on and sit down, Jim,” she says. “Dinner will be out in a moment.”

 

“So,” Jocelyn asks, once they’re all seated awkwardly around a replicated rump roast, “how did you two meet?”

Jim shifts in his chair. “Well, I…uh…work at a…place near the university and…”

“In a bar,” Joanna says. “Daddy, can you pass the potatoes?”

McCoy doesn’t even look at the potatoes. “‘In a bar,’ she says. Damn it, Joanna, you’re supposed to be studying, not hanging out in bars.”

“Just the one bar, Daddy. I’m a regular.”

“Oh, she’s a regular,” McCoy repeats to no one in particular. His fork clatters against his plate. “Well that just makes it so much better…”

“Oh please, Dad. I really don’t think you’re in a position to cast the first stone here.”

Jim really feels like he should say something here, but damned if he can figure out what.

“Now, Joanna, that’s hardly fair,” Jocelyn interjects and Jim feels a split second of relief…until she continues. “You know very well that your father prefers to do his drinking at home. Or from his flask.”

Jim chokes on a string bean and the conversation stops, all parties returning to their respective corners as if his coughing has signaled the end of the round. 

Jim drinks deeply from his glass of sweet tea while the McCoy family chews and swallows.

The silence is awkward but silent, and all too short.

“Now, Jim,” Jocelyn says, “did I hear Joanna say that your last name is Kirk?”

Jim tilts his head in the affirmative.

“Any relation to George Kirk? _The_ George Kirk?”

For a moment, Jim hesitates, looking down at his plate, and honestly considers saying ‘no.’

“He was Jim’s father.” 

Jim’s head snaps up to look at Joanna. He hadn’t thought she’d known. He certainly never told her.

“Everybody knows, Jim,” Joanna says, reading his expression with her usual ease. “It’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

“He was my father,” Jim repeats looking from Joanna to Jocelyn. “And I’m not ashamed.”

But he’s not sure he can say he’s proud, either.

“And you’re not in Starfleet?” Jocelyn is looking him over closely now, as if searching for a hidden uniform or insignia. “Surely they’d have made you an officer. A captain, even.”

_“You can be an officer in four years. You can have your own ship in eight.”_

Jim shakes his head. “That was my father’s dream. Not mine.”

“What _do_ you do, then?” Jocelyn asks.

“I’m a bartender,” Jim says quickly, if only to rob Joanna of the satisfaction.

“I see,” Jocelyn says after a long moment, her voice dropping about twenty degrees. “I suppose if you think that’s the best use of your talents…” She trails off.

Jim doesn’t really have an answer for that. Most days, he prefers not to think about it at all.

“Leave the kid alone, Jocelyn,” McCoy grumbles when she opens her mouth to say something more. “It’s his life. He can waste it if he wants.”

Jocelyn huffs, but lets it go.

They finish the rest of the meal in blessed, awkward silence.

 

Jim would do anything to escape to the guest room after their plates are cleared, but Jocelyn insists on serving coffee in the sitting room.

McCoy takes his cup of coffee, walks over to the liquor cabinet, adds a generous helping of whiskey and disappears.

Jim envies him.

A lot.

Forty minutes later, when Jocelyn’s thinly veiled inquiries into Jim’s lack of ambition and Joanna’s thinly veiled glee get to be too much, Jim excuses himself to use the restroom.

When Jim steps out of the bathroom and into the hallway, McCoy is waiting for him, advancing on him, pushing into Jim’s personal space until Jim finds his back pressed against the hallway wall.

“Stay away from my daughter,” McCoy growls.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Jim mutters, more to himself than McCoy, because, seriously, what the fuck is happening with his life?

“I mean it, kid. You’re no good for her.”

Jim almost laughs. “And _you_ are?” he snaps. “ _This_ is?” 

He makes a show of looking around to indicate the entire McCoy household because, goddammit, he’s had enough of this shit. Because Jim may be wasting his fucking life and his fucking potential and he may be a total slut and kind of a douchebag when it comes to relationships and commitment, but at the end of the day, he’s basically a decent guy, or at least he manages not to be a complete asshole most of the time, and right now that’s a hell of a lot more than he can say for anyone else around here.

“Fuck you,” McCoy snarls, his face just inches from Jim’s.

Jim meets his glare full on, doesn’t as much as blink, let alone flinch. “You already took care of that, _Bones_. Or don’t you remember?”

 

_After blowing the doctor in the bathroom and receiving the best handjob of his life in return, Jim went back to the reception._

_The doctor had disappeared, making the last two hours of his job kind of boring, but Jim was more than satisfied with his evening._

_He cleaned up, collected his pay and started to leave the hotel by way of the service entrance._

_As he passed the service lift, a hand shot out and closed around his arm, yanking him into the large but empty space._

_Jim went to struggle, but then he heard that voice._

_“Easy now,” it said._

_And he looked up into those eyes, relaxed into those hands, and smiled. “What floor?”_

_“Nineteen,” the doctor told the lift and before it even started gliding upward, Jim found himself pressed against the wall, teeth nipping at his neck._

_Jim bit back, harder, just to ramp things up a bit, and he wasn’t disappointed._

_Hands tightened on his forearms._

_“Christ, kid,” the doctor swore._

_“Call me Jim,” Jim said, because he hated being called kid, though he was rapidly getting to the point where he’d let the doctor call him anything._

_Still, calling this guy ‘the doctor’ in his head was starting to feel a little stupid._

_“And you are…?” Jim prompted when it didn’t seem like the doctor was going to return the courtesy._

_“Le…Lester.”_

_Jim laughed. “There is no way your name is Lester. And even if it was, there’s no way I’d ever use it.”_

_Not-Lester went back to working one hand up under Jim’s shirt while the other worked itself down into Jim’s pants and Jim wasn’t sure if it was intended as distraction or whether Not-Lester just really had his priorities straight._

_“Bones,” Jim declared a few seconds later. Declared, or possibly gasped. There may have been gasping._

_Bones pulled back a bit to frown at him, silently questioning the name with the craziest, sexiest eyebrow lift Jim had ever seen._

_“I’ve been calling you ‘the doctor’ in my head. Doctors used to be called ‘Sawbones.’ Nicknames shouldn’t have two syllables. So, Bones.”_

_The eyebrow crept up even further, which really shouldn’t have been possible._

_“What?” Jim shrugged. “People like it when bartenders produce random trivia. I get great tips.”_

_The lift glides to a stop and Jim steps out of it backwards, tugging at Bones’ shirt._

_“Now, come on, Bones, enough talk,” he says, as if the man’s said more than six words in the last three minutes. “Let’s get to your room and get to the good stuff.”_

 

McCoy doesn’t answer Jim’s question, but he doesn’t back off either, doesn’t remove himself from Jim’s personal space. 

If anything, he sways forward slightly and Jim can feel McCoy’s hot breath across his face and the wall against his back, and all of a sudden, it hits him.

Aside from the wallpaper and the anger in McCoy’s eyes, they might as well be back in that lift.

The tension in Jim’s body makes a dramatic shift.

He doesn’t even realize he’s licking his lower lip until he sees McCoy’s eyes following the movement, and anger’s not the only thing in them, not anymore.

McCoy’s hand comes up to press against the wall next to Jim’s head and Jim doesn’t know what’s coming but he knows there’s something and braces himself for it and…

“Jim?” Joanna calls from the sitting room. “Baby, where’d you go? Your coffee’s getting cold.”

McCoy lurches away like he’s been burned.

The back of Jim’s head bangs against the wall.

“Jim? What was that? Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” Jim calls. “I’ll be right there.”

Jim goes to push himself away from the wall, but McCoy steps forward again, stopping him with a hand against Jim’s chest.

“Tomorrow morning,” McCoy says, voice low and hard, “I want you to get up, pack your bags, and go back where you came from.”

An hour ago, Jim had been planning to do that very thing, but now he’s looking down at McCoy’s hand on his chest and he’s processing Joanna’s words—she has _never_ called him ‘baby’ before—and screw that. He’s done with letting McCoys jerk him around.

He knocks the hand away from his chest and pushes off the wall. 

“Make me,” he dares, before turning around and sauntering back to the sitting room.

 

Jim’s lying in bed but not yet asleep when a discreet knock sounds on the guest room door.

It pushes open a second later and when Joanna steps through, and Jim is surprised and somewhat disturbed to realize she isn’t the McCoy he was expecting.

He really _should_ pack up and leave in the morning. 

“Hey,” Joanna says, flashing him what Jim thinks of as her ‘let’s-do-it’ smile.

For the first time in their acquaintance, Jim doesn’t smile back. “Go back to your room, Jo. I’m not in the mood.”

Joanna’s nose wrinkles and the smile flickers a bit, like she can’t quite tell if he’s serious. “You’re _never_ not in the mood, Jim.”

“Sorry, _baby_ ,” he says, deadpan. “I have a headache.”

“Aw, come on,” Joanna says, moving forward to sit on the side of the bed. “Don’t be like that. I only said it to get under their skin. You knew that was the plan.”

“Yeah, I guess I just wasn’t quite clear on the part of the plan where you _toss me out a fucking airlock_. Seriously, Jo, what the fuck?”

“Oh please, since when do _you_ care what other people think of you? Especially them. I mean, you see how they are. Such fucking hypocrites.”

“I _don’t_ care,” Jim says, but even to himself it sounds like pouting. “But no matter what you’re trying to make them think, I’m still not your fucking boyfriend. Putting up with crazy family shit isn’t in my job description.”

The sex smile makes a comeback as Joanna reaches out to run teasing fingers over his bare chest. “Well, how ‘bout I make it up to you, then?” she proposes. “With something that _is_ in your job description.”

“Make it up to _me_?” Jim releases a soft, skeptical snort, but he doesn’t stop her as she pushes the covers down his body and swings her leg over to straddle his hips. “You’re only here hoping I’ll help you make enough noise to be heard down the hall.”

“Well…not _only_.” She rolls her hips down to grind against his growing interest, studying his face all the while. “Besides, you’re not exactly hating the idea of putting on a show.”

The moment she says it, Jim realizes it’s true.

He bucks up suddenly, reversing their positions and catching hold of her wrists, pressing them up over her head with one hand even as the other pushes at her nightshirt until it’s bunched above her breasts.

He leans down and goes to work with fingers, teeth and tongue, and when she comes screaming his name – twice – he’s damn sure it isn’t fake.

And if Jim’s own hoarse cry a minute later is a bit on the theatrical side, well, it’s all for the greater good.

“Happy?” he asks as he flops down beside her.

Joanna releases a breathy giggle. “I bet Mom is totally jealous right now. She only _wishes_ Councilman Jameson was that good.”

Something occurs to Jim. 

“You’re dad isn’t going to rush in here and punch me, is he?”

He tells himself that little skip in his heartbeat is fear.

“Nah,” Joanna says, “he couldn’t hear us from here. Mom has the master suite. Dad sleeps over in the old servants’ rooms.”

Jim tells himself that little twinge in his chest is relief.

 

When he wakes up in the morning, Jim doesn’t pack his bags.

He doesn’t ask himself why, either.

Instead he follows his nose, wandering down the stairs and into the kitchen, where McCoy is making waffles.

And not just with a replicator, either. 

He’s scooping actual batter out of a genuine mixing bowl and into a real live waffle iron.

Jim hasn’t seen one of those since he left home at seventeen.

He hasn’t seen one _in use_ for maybe twenty years.

Even more amazing is the fact that McCoy actually seems to be enjoying himself. Smiling and humming and everything. 

Jim stands in the doorway and just observes for a moment, taking it all in.

Then he hears the sizzle of the frying pan, turns his head, and spots the wonderful thing whose smell really led him here.

His body lurches toward it instinctively.

“Holy shit,” he can’t help saying out loud. “Is that _real_ bacon?”

His hand reaches out for the plate next to the cast iron frying pan, only to get slapped with a wooden spoon. 

“That’s not for you.”

Jim looks up from the bacon and into McCoy’s irritated eyes. Damn, but the man’s got reflexes.

“Morning, _Mr. McCoy_ ,” Jim chirps, watching with satisfaction as a scowl spreads across the other man’s face. “I didn’t know you could cook. That’s so awesome.”

When McCoy tilts his eyes heavenward, as if to ask the universe what fresh hell it has in store for him today, Jim reaches out again and snags the bacon, popping the entire strip into his mouth before McCoy can rip it out of his hand.

“Damn it,” McCoy mutters, but he sets the spoon back down on the counter before fishing the sizzling bacon out of the frying pan and removing it from the heat. He lays the new strips out on the plate with the rest and carries it with him over to the waffle iron, well out of Jim’s reach.

Meanwhile, Jim’s nose is busy detecting the last heavenly smell in the room.

“Real coffee, too?”

He and McCoy are equidistant from the coffee maker. They eye it and each other.

“Aw, come on,” Jim says. “You wouldn’t really deny a man his morning coffee…”

For a moment, McCoy’s face is saying that he really would, but then he turns back to the waffle iron. Jim takes that as a green light and hurries to pour himself a cup before McCoy can change his mind.

“This is amazing,” he says as the flavor of the first hot sip bursts across his tongue.

“It oughta be a sin to replicate coffee,” McCoy declares, not bothering to turn to look at Jim.

 _It oughta be a sin for you to say ‘sin’ in that drawl_ , Jim thinks. “Right there with you,” he says aloud.

Jim takes another sip as McCoy slides one waffle onto a plate and starts on another one and a silence descends. A silence Jim might almost be tempted to call ‘comfortable.’

Then Joanna appears.

“Daddy!” she exclaims, a genuine smile lighting up her face. “You made waffles.”

Jim turns from father to daughter and witnesses the return of the same soft, satisfied smile he’d chased off McCoy’s face a few minutes earlier.

But almost as soon as the moment appears, it’s gone. 

Joanna spots Jim and the genuine smile morphs into something more calculated.

“Hey, baby,” she says, crossing the room to wrap her arms around Jim’s waist from behind. “How come you didn’t wake me up?”

He didn’t wake her up because she went back to her own room last night about ten minutes after he got her off. But he guesses he’s agreed to play for now, so he does.

“You just looked so peaceful there,” Jim says, vomiting a little in his own mouth. 

Joanna starts nuzzling at his neck.

McCoy pops the second waffle out of the iron and sticks it on another plate, but instead of starting a third waffle, he picks up both plates and sets them in front of Jim and Joanna on the breakfast island where butter and maple syrup are already waiting. He turns back to the counter to fetch the plate of bacon and sets that down, too.

“Eat up,” he says, voice flat. “I’m late for work.”

Before Jim can think of anything to say, McCoy is gone.

Silently, he and Joanna pick up their knives and forks and begin to eat. Though Jim’s fairly certain it’s the best he’s ever been served, his waffle tastes like sawdust in his mouth.

Stealing a quick glance to the side, he thinks maybe Joanna’s does, too.


	3. Chapter 3

[ ](http://pics.livejournal.com/savoytruffle/pic/0006e6w4/)

That evening Jim finds himself playing boyfriend and bartender at an impromptu party. While showing him around town, Joanna had run into a few friends also home from college who had commed a few other friends and so on and now the den is overflowing with rapid-fire chatter and increasingly buzzed eighteen-year-olds.

Jim looks around and feels _old_.

This, he remembers, is why he stopped taking jobs at the bars closest to campus.

Still, he smiles, flirts the appropriate amount, and serves up mixed drinks of his own invention to rave, if sometimes far too high-pitched, reviews. The bar is as well stocked as you’d expect – though it might not be for long – and whatever mixers Jim doesn’t find, he replicates.

Jocelyn stops by for a few minutes as things are just getting going and, after studying her for a moment, Jim’s offers her a slight variation on an appletini, which she enjoys in spite of herself, even deigning to ask for another to take with her up to her suite.

It’s nearly eleven when McCoy sticks his head in the door, looking like he’s had a bitch of a day. Jim can’t imagine McCoy’s pleased to see that his house has become party central, but he doesn’t say anything, just ducks back out before anyone besides Jim even has the chance to notice him.

Jim reflects for a good couple of minutes before giving himself a confident nod and mixing a new drink.

He finds McCoy on the other side of the house, slouched in one of the study’s two high-backed arm chairs.

“Here,” he says, swapping the highball in his hand for the lowball of amber liquid sitting on the table next to McCoy before settling himself in the other chair, “try this.”

“I don’t do cocktails, kid.” McCoy flashes Jim a totally half-hearted glare. “My drink is—“

“Whiskey, straight up,” Jim finishes. “I remember. Now, try it. You’re gonna like it.” Jim winks. “I call it ‘The Grumpy Doctor.’ ”

“Ha ha.”

“Hey, I made it up, so I get to name it whatever I want.”

“You made it up.” McCoy looks skeptical. “And you actually expect me to _drink_ it?”

“I made it for _you_. Believe me, I am a _genius_ at personalized drinks.”

If possible, McCoy now looks even more skeptical.

“Seriously,” Jim insists, “it’s one of my least useful but most surprising talents. Trust me.”

Jim takes a drink from what used to be McCoy’s whiskey, just to make sure McCoy doesn’t ask for it back. McCoy scowls at him.

Jim rolls his eyes. “Just taste the damn drink. I figure it’s time for you to try something new for a change. You’re forty, not dead.”

McCoy growls at that, but lifts the glass to his lips and tilts it back.

Jim watches as he swallows. “Well?”

McCoy sighs but keeps the glass in his hand. “I guess I’ve had worse.”

Jim grins. “You love it.”

“Don’t you have a party to get back to?”

Jim shrugs. “In a little while. Too much time in that room and I start to feel ancient.”

McCoy’s nod could almost be taken for sympathy.

A minute passes as they sip their drinks.

“You’re too damn old for my daughter,” McCoy says, but it lacks any real heat.

Jim doesn’t deny it. “She rarely acts her age,” he says.

McCoy nods again. “Ain’t that the truth.”

 

 

 

 

Jim’s not used to wanting to get out of bed in the mornings – well, unless the bed’s not his and he really didn’t mean to fall asleep there in the first place – but this morning is different.

Joanna stayed up late last night with her friends and didn’t bother coming by Jim’s room and he figures she won’t be up another several hours.

But, Jim, he’s wide awake and he figures this would be a great time to go for a run. A man’s got to keep himself in shape, after all, especially when he’s pushing thirty-five, and there may not be many things that Jim prides himself on these days, but his fine physique is definitely one of them.

And if he happens to show off that physique by running shirtless, well, who can really blame him for taking advantage of weather that’s unseasonably warm, even for the South?

After all, it’s snowing back in Iowa.

 

It’s not like Jim’s _hoping_ to run into anybody who he thinks might be drinking his morning coffee in the kitchen around now.

Just, you know, if it happens, it happens.

So when Jim trots down the stairs in nothing but low-slung shorts and a pair of running shoes and it _doesn’t_ happen, it’s not like he’s disappointed or anything.

He just crosses the empty kitchen, opens the back door and walks straight into the man he wasn’t hoping to see.

Really.

Jim’s hand comes up automatically to rest on McCoy’s chest, and if his reflexes are a little too slow in the morning for him to pull that hand away immediately, well, who can blame him?

McCoy’s reflexes must be a little slow in the morning, too, because for a moment, he just stands there and stares.

Jim smiles and says, “Good morning, Mr. McCoy,” and then instantly wishes he hadn’t when that snaps McCoy out of their little moment and gets Jim shoved aside as McCoy storms his way into the kitchen.

“Nothing good about it,” McCoy growls, crossing to the far side of the room to activate the comm unit there. “Gimme the hospital,” he tells it, in a tone any sentient being would probably slap him for. Not that he adjusts his tone much for the sentient being that comes up on the screen. A little. But not much. “They need me for emergency surgery and the goddamn car won’t start again,” he says. “You’re gonna have to beam me in.” He swallows. “I’ll be ready in sixty seconds.”

McCoy hits a button – not gently – and the screen goes black.

“Car trouble?” Jim asks.

“Get out of my way,” McCoy says.

“I’m not in your way,” Jim points out, given that he’s at least five meters away. Oh, and that McCoy _isn’t actually moving._

“I don’t like transporters,” McCoy says. “Never trusted the damn things, never will.”

“I could look at your car for you,” Jim offers.

McCoy glares at him. “I have a mechanic.”

“Obviously not a good one.”

“And put a damn shirt on,” McCoy snaps. “Do you know how many airborne pathogens you—”

McCoy dematerializes mid-rant and if Jim _had_ been hoping to run into McCoy this morning – which of course he hadn’t – that probably wasn’t the interaction he had been hoping for.

For some reason, Jim isn’t disappointed.

 

 

Jim suspects that when Joanna’s not around, Leonard and Jocelyn can go days, maybe weeks, without seeing or speaking to each other.

He hopes so, at least.

For both their sakes.

But that night Leonard makes it home from the hospital at a reasonable hour and Jocelyn doesn’t have a date and they all sit through another family dinner.

Well, maybe ‘sit’ isn’t the right word.

Suffer.

‘Suffer’ works.

So does ‘drink.’

They all drink their way through it.

Jocelyn serves Jim and Joanna wine.

McCoy sticks to his whiskey.

Half an hour into it, Jim’s polishing off his third glass while Jocelyn tells him, in almost so many words, how he’ll never amount to anything and Joanna cheerfully agrees.

Jim almost feels like part of the family.

 

 

They all drink to recover from dinner, too.

Jocelyn takes a glass and retires to her rooms.

McCoy takes a bottle and retires to his study.

Jim and Joanna take a cab and hit the nearest bar.

 

 

It’s a known fact that if Jim enters a bar drunk, he rarely leaves it without starting a fight.

Well, it’s a known fact in Iowa.

Georgia is still becoming acquainted with Jim.

Which is probably why the eighteen-year-old boy who just became acquainted with Jim’s fist didn’t know better than to walk up to Joanna and ask her whether she was planning to take after her mother or her father, become a slut or a drunk.

“Both,” Joanna informed him proudly, just before Jim broke the boy’s nose.

With blood dripping down the kid’s face, Jim’s about to move on to the internal bleeding portion of the program when the kid’s three older brothers join the fight.

That’s when things get interesting.

 

 

They stagger their way back into the house with Jim’s arm slung around Joanna’s shoulders. Jim thinks a tooth might be loose and he’s pretty sure there’s a broken rib or two, but he doesn’t have a concussion and he isn’t in jail, so he’s considering this one a win. It was the other guy’s turf, after all.

Joanna dumps him on a chair in the kitchen and goes to fetch her father.

From his bed, apparently.

If the pajama pants and bathrobe are anything to go by.

The bathrobe hangs open over the good doctor’s bare chest and Jim’s way too wasted to control his leer, but not so wasted that he forgets to hope Joanna won’t notice.

The split lip probably hid it anyway.

“What in blazes?” McCoy is saying.

“It was the Calvert boys,” Joanna tells him.

“Damn Calverts,” McCoy mutters, digging around for something in an old-fashioned medical bag.

Joanna turns to Jim. “They’re our Hatfields,” she explains.

“Your huh?” Jim’s confused. Didn’t they just say ‘Calverts’?

“You know – Hatfields, McCoys?” Jim just blinks at her. It hurts to blink. She rolls her eyes. “Nevermind. They don’t like our family, okay?”

“And the feeling’s mutual,” McCoy adds. “Go to bed, darlin’. I’ve got this.”

“Are you sure you don’t want me to—?”

“Go to bed,” McCoy repeats.

Joanna goes.

McCoy pulls up another chair and sits down in front of Jim.

“Is this the part where you poke at my bruises a bit for fun and then leave me to die in a pool of my own vomit?” Jim asks. He considers it an impressively long sentence for his current state. Hell, it’s an impressively long _thought_ at this point.

“Don’t be an idiot,” McCoy says, before jabbing Jim in the neck with a hypospray.

“Ow!” Jim reaches up to cover his own neck. “Warn a guy next time.”

“Infant,” McCoy mutters.

“Sadist,” Jim replies, but he has to admit it’s already hurting less.

And McCoy’s already begun to patch him up.

 

They should probably be talking, Jim thinks. It’s been almost twenty minutes without a word spoken between them, just McCoy’s firm but gentle hands moving confidently over Jim’s less and less broken body, and the less it hurts the more Jim _feels_.

It’s intimate as hell.

He can hear McCoy breathing and he wonders if McCoy can hear his heart pounding and _words_ , Jim thinks, words would break the spell.

And then McCoy’s fingers are brushing over Jim’s cheek, running down the swollen curve of his jaw and tracing his dry but healed lower lip, in ways that that can’t be medically necessary. A breath catches in Jim’s throat.

“What kind of damn fool tries to destroy a face like this?” McCoy asks, voice low and almost reverent, and so much for words.

Jim doesn’t know if he’s supposed to be the ‘damn fool’ or if it’s the Calvert brothers.

Jim doesn’t care.

He opens his mouth and it’s not to ask, but he’s not sure what it _is_ for, and he never finds out because there’s another sharp sting at his neck and all that comes out is, “Ow! Shit!”

“That’s for the residual swelling,” McCoy announces, gruff doctor returning to his voice. “You’ll be good as new by tomorrow. Now go on upstairs. I’m sure Jo is waiting to tuck you in.”

Jim opens his mouth again, then closes it. He swallows. “I…um…thanks.”

McCoy isn’t looking at Jim as he puts his things back into the medical bag. “She’s a good girl,” he says.

Jim’s not sure if it’s a warning or a reminder.

Or who it’s supposed to be for.

“Look, Mr. McCoy.” Jim frowns. “ _Doctor_ McCoy.” No. “McCoy.” Eh. “Leonard.” Ew. “Len, Lenny, Leo.” Ew, ew, and ew. “Do you think I could just call you ‘Bones’ for the moment and we could both just agree to forget where it came from?”

Jim takes Bones’ silence for agreement. Or at least acceptance.

“Look, _Bones_ ,” Jim says, starting over, “your daughter and I, we’re not…I mean, we’re just…friends.”

Bones raises a highly skeptical eyebrow. “So you’re _not_ sleeping with her?”

“Well, okay, so your daughter and I are friends with benefits. Or, you know, fuck buddies.”

“Could you not use the word ‘fuck’ when you’re talking about my _daughter_?”

“Right,” Jim says. “Sorry. Look, the point is, you don’t have to worry about me, okay? I’m not your future son-in-law or the father of your grandchildren or even the guy she’s gonna bring home on her next break. Joanna’s way too smart to pin those kinds of hopes on a guy like me. I’m not even her boyfriend. I mean, I’m not sure she even _wants_ a boyfriend, let alone something more. Me and her, we just like to…well, you know…and sometimes we hang out, but mostly just the…. Anyway, she only asked me to come here because she knew you wouldn’t like me. She just wanted to piss you off.”

Jim stops and tries to offer a reassuring smile. The skin around his lips feels tight.

Bones just studies him for a moment. “That supposed to make me feel better?”

“Um, yeah?”

Or maybe it’s just selfish. Maybe he just wants Bones to know it is – or isn’t – between him and Jo.

“I’m supposed to take comfort in the fact that my daughter is so _angry_ with me – hates me and her mother _so_ much – that she would drag you all the way down here just to throw you in our faces?”

“Well, when you put it that way…”

“In the fact that raising her in this house has twisted her heart up so bad that she’s only eighteen years old and she’s already decided that she doesn’t even want to _try_ to find someone she could care about?”

“Hey, I didn’t…”

McCoy stands abruptly, his chair scraping loudly across the kitchen floor. He crosses to the counter and pours himself a glass of whiskey, knocking back half of it in one swallow. “Go to bed, Jim,” he says, without turning back around.

Jim goes.

 

 

Joanna isn’t waiting in the guest room to tuck him in and Jim finds himself relieved.

Relieved and frustrated and way too fucking keyed up to sleep.

He waits about twenty minutes to make sure Bones will have gone upstairs and then sneaks out of the house and into the garage.

 

 

 

“What the hell is this?”

Jim shimmies out from under the car only to be met with a familiar glare.

Jim smiles upward. “Hey, Bones. What time is it?”

Bones scowls. “It’s seven thirty a.m. What the hell are you doing out here?”

“Good news,” Jim says. “I know what’s wrong with your car.”

“You mean aside from the fact that the pieces of it are scattered all over the damn garage?”

Jim gets to his feet, dusting his hands off on his jeans. “You should fire your mechanic, by the way. The man’s an idiot.”

“ _You’re_ an idiot,” McCoy snaps. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

“Um, fixing your car?”

“I told you I have a mechanic.”

“And _I_ just told you he’s an idiot. And that I know what’s wrong with your car. Which, in case you missed it, is a _good_ thing.”

“A good thing?” McCoy repeats, slowly and with exaggerated enunciation, like Jim is a small and particularly stubborn child. “My. Car. Is. In. Pieces.”

Jim rolls his eyes. “Relax, Bones. Sometimes you have to take something apart before you can put it back together again. The right way. All she needs is a couple new parts and some TLC and she’ll be good as new.”

McCoy is unconvinced. “You’re. A. Bartender.”

“With a surprising array of natural talents. Machines are just something I get. Always have. I don’t know. I’ve been fixing cars since I was twelve.” Jim shrugs, leaning back against the car. “Well, aside from the one I drove off a cliff, but that was a special case.”

McCoy steps closer, shaking his head. “Are you out of your mind?”

“Okay, seriously, Bones – what is your problem?” Jim’s starting to think he hasn’t had anywhere near enough sleep for this conversation. “I’ll get the parts today in town. She’ll be running like a dream before dinnertime. You can thank me later.”

“Don’t call me that,” Bones snaps, taking another step forward. “What did you even think you were doing?”

“Nothing. Helping. Paying you back,” Jim snaps back. “You fixed me. I fixed your car. We’re even.”

“It’s not fixed!” Bones all but shouts, lurching toward him.

“It will be!” Jim all but yells, fingers pressing into the alloy beneath them.

They’re in each other’s faces now, eyes locked.

“I didn’t ask for your help,” Bones growls.

Jim doesn’t blink. “Too late now,” he says.

Bones takes a deep breath and opens his mouth like he’s about to curse a blue streak right into Jim’s face, but he lets it all out in a frustrated sigh instead. “Why couldn’t you just leave well enough alone?” Jim hears him whisper, just before he closes the last of the distance between them, and Jim’s lips are crushed beneath a hot, hard, _familiar_ mouth.

Jim kisses back – just as hot, just as hard – and now they’re fighting again, but in the good way.

Jim falls back against the car, fisting his hands into Bones’ shirt to drag Bones down with him, their tongues still tangling, one of Jim’s legs coming up to lock around the back of Bones’ thigh. Their hips grind into each other.

Jim bites at Bones’ lower lip, hard.

Bones pulls back. “Asshole,” he mutters, pushing up Jim’s tee shirt, reaching for Jim’s fly.

Jim shifts his hips off the car until Bones can get Jim’s jeans and underwear down just enough, even as Jim reaches for Bones’ waistband. Bones bats Jim’s hands away and pushes his own pants just off his hips, then surges back forward until their dicks are rubbing hot skin to hot skin, and that’s all Jim needs right now.

Maybe ever.

But then Bones somehow gets his hand down there, that fucking perfect surgeon’s hand, and _that_ – that is what Jim needs.

He needs it so, so bad.

It’s what’s been missing from his fucking life for who knows how long and Jim comes so fast and so hard that it would be embarrassing if he was in any position to actually care.

If Bones hadn’t just come, too, and wasn’t slumped down over him, panting into his neck.

“Shit,” Jim whispers.

“Yeah,” Bones mutters, and Jim can feel the soft puff of air against his jaw.

A moment passes, filled only with the sound of their labored breathing. Then:

“I thought you hated me.”

A sigh.

“Don’t I wish.”


	4. Chapter 4

[ ](http://pics.livejournal.com/savoytruffle/pic/0006e6w4/)

They don’t really speak after that.

Jim’s tee shirt is already dirty, so he takes it off, turns it inside out and uses it to clean them up. McCoy refastens his pants and then pulls out his personal comm and asks the hospital to beam him in again. Jim waits to watch him dematerialize and then returns to the house.

He peeks in the window to make sure the coast is clear before entering the kitchen through the back door. He’s making his way towards the stairs with soft steps when he hears Jocelyn’s voice from the hallway.

“Joanna?”

Jim freezes.

“Coming, Mom!” Joanna calls, her feet thumping on the stairs.

And before Jim can do more than swear under his breath, both women have arrived in the kitchen. Jim looks back and forth between them as they both stare at Jim’s naked chest.

Jocelyn frowns in disapproval.

Joanna grins in appreciation.

Jim doesn’t know which is worse.

He folds his arms in front of himself as Joanna approaches. She reaches out to run a hand over his bare shoulder and he tries not to flinch.

“Hey, you,” she says. “Where have you been?”

“I…uh…car!” Jim says. “I was fixing your dad’s car.”

“Without a shirt?”

“I…um…I couldn’t sleep.”

“Oh,’” Jo says, even though Jim’s not sure that was actually an answer. “Well, that was nice of you, I guess.” She studies him for another moment and then smiles. “Dad did a good job on you.”

“ _What_? What do you mean?” Jim eyes dart down his own body, scanning for the evidence he’d forgotten to erase.

Jo frowns at him. “Your face,” she says. “It looks good as new.”

“Oh, yeah, right.” Jim quirks his lips into a poor imitation of a smile. “Your dad has good hands.”

Jim can’t believe he just said that.

He can’t believe he’s such an asshole.

He can’t believe he’s still standing in the middle of the kitchen half naked.

“Shower!” he says, inching towards the stairs. “I really need a shower.”

“Okay,” Jo says slowly, like she can’t quite figure him out. Christ, Jim really hopes she _can’t_ figure him out. There’s got to be a first time for everything, right? “Well, Mom and I were just about to go shopping, so I guess I’ll see you later.”

Jim’s chest collapses with relief. “Right. Later.”

Joanna is looking at him funny again. “Maybe you should get some sleep, too. You seem a little jumpy.”

“Sleep. Yeah. Definitely.” Jim knows he’s nodding way too vigorously as he backs up the first couple of steps. _Christ, Kirk,_ he thinks, _play it cool._

Jocelyn is watching, so Joanna follows him up the steps to plant a quick kiss on his lips. “Later, baby,” she says.

Jim turns and flees up the stairs.

 

 

The shower helps.

So does a nap.

Jim would have sworn he’d never be able to fall asleep in this house again, but he passes out as soon as his body hits the bed.

When he wakes up, he goes to town and gets the parts for Bones’ car. Being in the garage again is weird at first, his crumpled tee shirt still lying where he tossed it in the corner, but putting the car back together is soothing. His brain knows what to do. His head feels clear.

He makes a decision.

Whatever happened this morning – _whatever happened eight years ago_ – it’s a terrible idea.

And it’s over.

 

 

When he finishes with the car, he heads back into the house. Jo and Jocelyn have just gotten back. It’s early for dinner, but they’re all hungry, so they replicate some sandwiches and start eating them in the kitchen.

Bones – no, _Mr. Mcoy_ – gets home a few minutes later.

“Hey, Daddy,” Joanna says. “Thanks for taking care of Jim last night.”

Jim nearly chokes on his sandwich as McCoy’s face turns red.

They really, really need to talk.

Jim takes a few fortifying gulps of his sadly unspiked tea and tries to communicate this urgent need non-verbally, but McCoy is avoiding Jim’s eyes.

“The car’s fixed,” Jim blurts, suddenly. “We could…um…I mean, I should show you. The car.”

McCoy finally looks at him, then, and gets the message loud and clear. Jim watches him take a deep breath and a long exhale.

“You’re right,” McCoy says at last. “Let’s go.”

“About this morning…” Jim starts, once they’re in the garage and out of earshot.

“Never happened.” McCoy’s voice is soft and firm.

Jim nods. “Never happened,” he confirms.

McCoy nods back.

They stand there for a few moments, awkward as hell. Both studiously avoid looking at the hood of the car.

“So, um, the car’s fixed,” Jim says again. “We could maybe take it out for a quick drive, make sure it’s running okay.”

McCoy hesitates for a second, shrugs. “Yeah, okay. Why not?”

 

Jim drives.

Four kilometers from the house and Jim’s fingers brush Bones’ thigh.

Seven kilometers from the house and Bones’ hand is squeezing Jim’s dick through his pants.

Nine kilometers from the house and Jim pulls over onto a service road.

They fuck like teenagers in the back seat.

Why not, indeed.

 

 

 

The back seat of the car continues to see action.

As does the garage.

Jim gets better at lying to Joanna and gives up on lying to himself.

It’s less than a week until he and Jo leave Georgia.

You can hide anything for that long.

 

 

They do it in the study one evening while Jo and Jocelyn watch a holovid in the den, and Bones clamps a hand over Jim’s mouth to keep him quiet.

Jim bites into it when he comes.

He catches a glimpse of the teeth shaped bruises the next morning at breakfast, but they’re gone by the evening. The dubious miracle of modern medicine.

They do it upstairs in the guest bathroom while Joanna’s downstairs on the comm with a friend, Jim balanced precariously on the counter, Bones leaving hot handprints against the mirror.

Jim sucks a hickey into Bones’ neck.

Five days left.

He wants to leave a mark.

 

 

Jo comes to Jim’s room that night, standing at the end of the bed in a silk camisole with tiny silk shorts that leave little to the imagination, holding his gaze.

Jim feels dirty.

She pulls the camisole over her head, exposing her breasts and Jim can’t keep his eyes from slipping down, so he looks away.

He hears Joanna sigh, hears the soft whisper of the silk against her skin, and when he turns back the camisole is back in place. Her arms are crossed over her chest.

“I ruined it, didn’t I?” It’s not really a question. He’s been putting her off for days, making excuses, and she’s a smart girl. “I shouldn’t have brought you here,” she continues. “It was selfish and I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Jim says. He knows a little something about selfish.

“So do you think when we get back to Iowa, we could still…?”

Jim shakes his head, lips tilting into a small, wry smile. “Probably not a good idea.”

She shrugs, nods. “Well, it was worth a shot, anyway. I’m really gonna miss the sex.”

Jim smiles at her for another moment, then remembers the pain in Bones’ eyes as they sat across from each other in the kitchen the other night. “You should try and find a real boyfriend,” he says. “Someone you could care about. Not all relationships end up shit.”

He’s not even sure _he_ believes it.

Joanna just laughs, a short sound somewhere between skeptical and resigned. “Could’ve fooled me.” She shakes her head at him. “Besides, I’m only eighteen. I’m supposed to be sowing my wild oats. What’s your excuse?”

Jim guesses she’s got him there.

 

 

Now that he knows Joanna won’t come looking for him, Jim starts sneaking out of his room at night and into Bones’.

It’s dumb as hell and he knows it, but with four days left, it feels worth the risk.

There’s time to talk, afterwards. Not about everything, but not about nothing either. The little pains, if not the big ones.

 

 

Hours together in the night, and still they steal moments from the day. The morning, the evening, the hallway, the kitchen – quick, stupid kisses and gropes – and Jim’s not sure when getting caught stopped being his worst case scenario.

 

 

Another excruciating family dinner – forty minutes that feel more like hours – made only more awkward by the fact that Jo has apparently solved the problem of their fake relationship by informing her mother of a fake breakup and now Jocelyn’s giving Jim the cold shoulder.

And by the fact that Jim and Bones can’t even look at each other for fear they’ll stare too long.

So Jim keeps his eyes on his plate and exchanges awkward small talk with Jo until – _finally_ – their plates are cleared.

Jocelyn goes upstairs to change, Joanna goes upstairs to comm a friend, and Jim and Bones end up in the kitchen, alone.

“Jesus,” Jim says, “I thought that would _never_ end.” But he’s smiling as he slowly backs Bones against a counter, sliding a thigh between Bone’s legs and a hand up Bones’ shirt, leaning in to bite at Bones’ neck. “I’ve been wanting to do this for _hours_.”

“Shh,” Bones whispers, even as he slides his hands down over Jim’s ass, tugging him closer, “they’re just upstairs.”

“Wanna blow you,” Jim says. “Wanna get down on my knees right here and suck your brains out through your cock.”

“Dammit, Jim,” Bones mutters. “Shit, you’d look so good.”

“I’d do it,” Jim promises. “Right here, right now. Just don’t say ‘no.’”

“ _Jim_ …” Bones moans.

Jim starts to bend his knees, but freezes when he hears footsteps on the stairs. He straightens up and jumps back, turns his back on Bones and tries to make himself look busy at the refrigerator. Meanwhile, Bones’ attempt to act naturally amounts to pouring himself a glass of whiskey, and Jim has to admit, it doesn’t get much more natural than that.

“Hey,” Jo says as she pops into the room, Jocelyn following after. “Mom’s gonna drop me at Casey’s on her way to her bridge game.” She shoots Jim an apologetic glance. “Will you be okay here on your own? I haven’t seen Casey in forever and we’re only here for a few more days.”

A few more days.

Jim nods, swallowing past the lump in his throat. “I’ll manage.”

Jocelyn walks around Joanna toward the back door. “Leonard,” she says with a cool nod, and Jim suspects she’s only acknowledged Bones to make it clear that she’s ignoring Jim.

Bones tips his tumbler in Jocelyn’s direction. “Have fun with _bridge_ , dear.”

“I’m sure I will,” Jocelyn assures him, voice sticky with artificial sweetness. She ushers Jo out the door in front of her and lets it slam, just slightly, behind them.

“People still play bridge down here?” Jim asks.

Bones snorts. “ _People_ do. Jocelyn’s never played a hand of bridge in her life.”

“So ‘bridge’ is…?”

“Probably Brady Robertson. Maybe Kyle Bowman. It’s hard to keep track.”

Jim frowns. “I don’t get it,” he says suddenly. “I mean, why do you bother?”

“Keeping track?” Bones shrugs. “Dunno. Habit, I guess.”

“No, I mean, with any of this.” Jim gestures at their surroundings. “All of this.”

Bones shrugs again. “Habit, I guess.” He tips the whiskey bottle to top off his glass. “C’mon, let’s go upstairs.”

Jim doesn’t move. “That’s a stupid answer. I want a real one.”

Bones raises an eyebrow at the demand. “And supposing that _is_ the real answer?”

“Then it’s not good enough. I want…”

“Don’t do this, Jim,” Bones warns, but it’s too late.

“I want you to leave with me.”

The words come out in a rush, and Jim doesn’t know until he hears them, but he does want it. All of a sudden, he wants it more than anything.

“Don’t be stupid.”

“We’re good together.”

“You’re my daughter’s boyfriend.”

“Not anymore.” Jim shakes his head. “I mean, not _ever_. Damn it, Bones, can’t you see there’s nothing for you here?”

“My _job_ is here,” Bones says. “I’m a doctor. It’s what I am.”

“So find a new job. Funny thing about hospitals – they tend to have them everywhere.”

“In case it’s escaped your notice, Jim, I’m also an alcoholic.”

“So don’t take your flask to the interview. You’re functional. More than.”

Bones looks him straight in the eye and holds his gaze. “Let. It. Go.”

Jim can see the anger simmering just below the surface, but knowing when to say when has never been his strong point.

“Look around you, Bones. What do you expect me to do? Just stand around and do nothing.”

“Yes, Jim, that’s _exactly_ what I expect.” Bones turns and stalks his way down the hall, pausing at the door his study to look back. “You’ve spent your entire life standing around and doing nothing. Three more days should be a walk in the park.”

The study door slams shut and Jim’s still staring at _that_ door a few seconds later when he hears the one behind him open. He turns around just as Joanna steps through it. He doesn’t know how long she’s been standing on the other side, but he can tell from her face that it was long enough.

“I forgot my comm,” she says.

Jim just blinks at her for a moment, swallows. “You weren’t supposed to hear that.”

Joanna’s lips twist. “I gotta say – you and my dad? I did _not_ see that one coming.”

Jim waves a hand around, grasping for something, anything. “If it makes you feel any better, we—“

“Are you _sure_ you want to finish that sentence, Jim? Because whatever it is, I’m guessing it’s _not_ going to make me feel better.”

Jim thinks she may have a point. He keeps his mouth shut.

“Just tell me one thing,” Joanna says.

“Will it work?”

“What?”

“Will he leave?” Joanna clarifies. “With you, or because of you, or whatever? I don’t care. I just wanna know – can you _end_ this?”

It’s not the question Jim was expecting. “I don’t know,” he says, “but I’ll try.”

She spends a moment sizing him up, then nods. “You’d better.”

Jim nods back, looking down.

“Oh, and Kirk?”

Jim looks up just in time to receive the full force of her fist across his jaw.

His hand flies to his face. “Ow! Fuck!” It occurs to him that you should never teach a girl you’re sleeping with how to throw a right hook. Still… “Good follow through,” he says, “but don’t forget to keep your shoulder down.” He sets his left hand on his own right shoulder and starts to mime the motion.

“Jim?”

He stops and looks at her again.

“Let’s _not_ be friends right now.”

Fair enough, he figures. He _is_ fucking her father.

Brushing past him, Joanna jogs up the stairs. A few seconds later, she jogs back down with her comm and the kitchen door slams for the second time that evening, leaving Jim alone in the McCoy kitchen, rubbing at his stinging jaw.

 

 

Jim gives Bones the rest of the evening to brood.

He puts on his shorts and sneakers, throwing in a shirt for good measure, and goes for a long run.

He takes stock of his situation.

He’s got less than three days to convince the most bitter man he’s ever met to end his twenty-year marriage, leave his family home, quit his job, and run away with the good-for-nothing bartender who used to fuck his daughter.

The task _should_ be daunting. Bones has already turned him down in no uncertain terms – a fact that _should_ be demoralizing, or at least sobering. Jim _should_ feel tired or anxious or ready to give up, and yet…

Jim has never felt more energized in his life.

His mind races – planning, plotting, strategizing – as his steady stride eats up the ground beneath him.

Finally, he has a purpose, a mission.

Suddenly, he’s not prepared to fail.

For once in his life, something actually matters.

And, damn, it feels good.

 

 

When he gets back to the house, Jim spends an hour or so inventing cocktails for Jocelyn and programming them into the replicator. He figures if you’re going to steal a person’s husband, you ought to at least leave some parting gifts.

It’s late by the time he finishes, so Jim turns in.

To Bones’ bed.

And when Bones crawls into that bed an hour later, he doesn’t kick Jim out.

Jim figures it’s a good sign.

 

 

 

Jim wakes up before dawn with too much energy, too much _anticipation_ flowing through his veins to let him fall back asleep. He rolls to his side and watches Bones instead.

Watches and thinks.

Eventually, Bones’ eyes flutter open.

“It’s like The Grumpy Doctor,” Jim says.

Bones squints at him through already narrow eyes. “Huh?”

“Or maybe like The Not-So-Grumpy Doctor. Or like The Grumpy-But-in-a-Less-Bitter-More-Sexy-Way Doctor.” Jim thinks for a second. “Yeah, I could totally make one of those. A little Cardassian tonic water, maybe a splash of lime…”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“You’re right,” Jim says. “The lime would ruin it.”

“Am I still asleep?” Bones asks. “That would explain a lot.”

“It’s simple,” Jim says. “See, the whiskey is misery.”

“I like whiskey.”

“Right. And you like being miserable.”

“That doesn’t make any sense.”

“You’re telling me,” Jim says. “Anyway, so you’ve convinced yourself that misery is your drink and you’ve always got to have it straight up and heaven forbid you even try anything more complicated like a shot of companionship or a splash of fun…”

“It’s too damn early for this conversation,” Bones mutters rolling away from Jim and out of bed.

“That may be true, Bones. But at least it’s not too late.”

“Lights. Forty percent.” Bones throws on his bathrobe. “I need coffee.”

“I’ll be right down,” Jim says, standing to go to the bathroom.

Bones squints at him. “What happened to your face?”

“Oh, that? Jo punched me,” Jim says, as the bathroom door starts to slide shut behind him. “By the way, she totally knows about us.”

“Damn it, Jim.”

 

 

“Here,” Jim says that evening, walking into the study and handing Bones a glass. “Try this.”

Bones takes it, turns it in his hand. “Please tell me this isn’t…”

“The Grumpy-But-in-a-Less-Bitter-More-Sexy-Way Doctor?” Jim smiles. “’Course it is. Though that’s only the working title. Obviously.”

Bones rolls his eyes. “Obviously.”

“Keep in mind, it’s only a prototype,” Jim says. “The Less-Bitter and More-Sexy are a delicate balance.”

Bones takes a sip.

“So…?” Jim prompts.

Bones takes another drink and considers. “Which answer puts an end to your tortured metaphor?”

“Oh, come on, it’s not _that_ bad.”

Bones’ eyebrow begs to differ.

“Okay, fine.” Jim waves a dismissive hand. “Moving on.”

“Thank god.”

“Besides, it’s not really like the drink thing at all. It’s much more like the car.”

“And what, you’re the mechanic?”

“Hell no, your mechanic’s an idiot. I’m the guy who _actually_ fixes things.”

“You can’t fix this, Jim.”

Bones voice holds not a single trace of doubt or hope and suddenly it pisses Jim off.

“You don’t _know_ that,” he snaps. “You don’t know because you never really _try_. You just take the damn car to the same idiot mechanic and then you act like you’re surprised that it still doesn’t work. Well, fuck that. Bitch about your broken car, or your broken life, all fucking day if you want. Or grab a fucking bottle and suffer in silence. But if that’s what you’re going to do, then just admit that you enjoy being miserable and tell me to fuck off. But don’t act like it _can’t_ be fixed. Because you don’t fucking _know_.”

“Jim…”

“Like maybe leaving with me is the worst possible thing you could do. I’m not saying it isn’t. But what if it’s the best? I’m right here, Bones, and I’m actually fucking trying for once in my life. Why can’t you just…” Jim shakes his head. “You know what? Never-fucking-mind.”

This time Jim’s the one to slam the door.

It feels good.

 

 

He _feels_ like going to a bar, finding a fight.

He _decides_ to go for a run.

He goes upstairs to change. When he comes back down, Joanna is in the kitchen.

“It’s like he _wants_ to be miserable.”

“So change his mind.”

 

 

When Jim gets back, he showers in the guest bathroom, but there’s only one bed he wants to crawl into.

Bones is already there.

For the first time, they take their time. Bones’ hands map the planes of Jim’s body like he can memorize them purely by touch.

He probably can.

Jim uses his lips and tongue, learning Bones by taste and texture.

It feels like goodbye.

 

Afterwards, they lie side by side.

Jim stares at the ceiling.

“I met this guy once,” he says. “In a bar. He’d known my father and he asked me if I liked being ‘the only genius-level repeat offender in the Midwest.’ I’m sure he figured I was afraid I wouldn’t live up to my father’s legacy, but I don’t know. Maybe I just liked having the power to reject expectations. Only it’s been twelve years since then and it’s like I just now realized I’ve got nothing to show for it.”

“So, what? You figure if you can fix me, it’ll give your life meaning? Believe me, Jim, there are worthier causes.”

“You’re not a cause.”

“What then?”

“I don’t know. It’s just… I know it sounds stupid, but you make me want to do something, be someone.” Okay, so that really does sound stupid, and more than a little desperate, but he’s started now and he’s going to finish. “And I could be the same for you. I know I could. We can fix each other, okay? We’ll find you another job and—”

“That’s the thing, Jim. I can’t _get_ another job. The only reason I still have one at all is because my boss is a very old friend who cares more about skill than ethics.”

“If this is about the drinking, we could—”

“It’s not about the drinking, Jim. It’s about the fact that I killed my father. It’s about the fact that doctors are supposed to save life, not take it.”

 

 

It makes for a hell of a bedtime story, listening to Bones explain how, almost fifteen earlier, his father was dying of pyrrhoneuritis. How the disease was painful, how his father suffered and how Bones finally gave in to his father’s request to turn off the life support.

How the cure for pyrrhoneuritis was discovered just weeks later.

Bones’ voice shakes with the telling and by the time he’s through, he’s turned his back on Jim, curled into himself. Jim doesn’t try to make him turn around, just wraps himself around Bones from behind and holds on.

 

 

 

Jim wakes up first in the morning, his words to Joanna the evening before echoing in his head.

_It’s like he **wants** to be miserable._

And that’s when Jim gets it.

He goes downstairs to make coffee.

When Bones joins him in the kitchen a few minutes later, Jim hands him a steaming mug. Bones accepts with a questioning brow.

“It’s just coffee,” Jim says. “Drink up. I have something I need to tell you and I want you to hear it.”

Jim makes sure Bones is at least halfway through the cup before he speaks, before he looks Bones straight in the eye and says, “You don’t deserve to miserable.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You heard me,” Jim says. “You, Leonard Horatio McCoy, do not deserve to be miserable. You are not responsible for your father’s death and you do not need to be punished for it.”

“Look, Jim…”

“No, _you_ look. You are a good doctor and a good man and you have just as much right to try to be happy as anybody else.”

“Jim…”

“And so do I.” Jim lifts his head and throws back his shoulders and dares Bones to disagree. “It’s not my fault my father died on the _Kelvin_ just like it’s not your fault your father was killed by a terrible disease and we have just as much right to live as anybody else.”

“Of course what happened to your father wasn’t your fault…”

“And _we_ ,” Jim emphasizes the word, “are going to start living right now. Today. You and me. So finish your coffee and pack a bag, Bones, because we are _leaving_.”

Bones doesn’t move .

“But Joanna—”

“Probably wants you to leave more than you do. She’ll be down for breakfast by the time you’re finished packing and we’ll say goodbye.”

“But Jocelyn wil—”

“Leave her everything and send the divorce papers later. She’ll be thrilled.”

“You’re not—”

“Going to let you finish a sentence until you give in? No, Bones, I’m not.”

Jim watches him consider this and when Bones opens his mouth again, Jim prepares himself to interrupt another objection.

The question takes him by surprise.

“Where are we going, then?”

It takes Jim a moment to realize Bones has just agreed to leave with him.

It takes him another moment to realize he has no fucking idea.

It takes him no time at all to realize it doesn’t matter.

“Anywhere but here, Bones,” Jim declares boldly. “The universe is our oyster.”

Bones finishes his coffee and rolls his eyes.

Jim slings an arm around his shoulder and grins. “Hell, you’re a doctor and I’m a legacy – maybe we’ll join Starfleet.”

 

 

 

_Fin._


End file.
